


there's nothing magic going on, then along came you

by scoutshonour



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, F/M, M/M, Polyamory, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 05:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14994137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoutshonour/pseuds/scoutshonour
Summary: Jonathan hates his job.You're right: hate is a strong word. Which is exactly why he's using it. But despite the terrible hat he has to wear, the yellow uniform, the stupid drink names (seriously, what the fuck is Apple Mango Tango,is it apple or is it mango), and the people who don't know how to act like decent human beings—there are a few upsides.Namely Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler.(or: summer/coffee-shop au)





	there's nothing magic going on, then along came you

**Author's Note:**

> this was so ????? I don't ??? know ??? but I liked it and this is what I did instead of studying for my English exam (...in all fairness, I was _writing_ which is flexing my writing skills, so) 
> 
> also Billy is so .... boring like, he's in one scene for five seconds, and I didn't give a shit he's your typical bully I'm SORRY

Jonathan hates his job.

You're right: hate _is_ a strong word. Which is exactly why he's using it. But despite the terrible hat he has to wear, the _yellow_ uniform, the stupid drink names (seriously, what the fuck is Apple Mango Tango, _is it apple or is it mango),_ and the people who don't know how to act like decent human beings—there are a few upsides.

Namely Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler.

He's not really sure when it happened, but they've been one of the few highlights of his summer. That's not really saying much; his summer's always been confined to dicking around town with his camera, spending time with Will when he's not with his friends, and of course, working. He'd started his first part-time job as soon as he could. His mother never asked; she never needed to. Jonathan would wordlessly leave a good portion of his pay check on his mother's dresser and once she realized that he was at least saving some money for himself, she stopped complaining and accepted it with a kiss on his forehead.

Jonathan's first job was at a grocery mart. A small thing, right in the centre of the town, and extremely convenient. He'd had that job for three years, until the owner, a kind-hearted man with a toothy smile, Scott Mendoza, decided to move across state to live with his daughter. The store is currently vacant and utterly empty, and Jonathan was sad to see him go, honestly.

He was also extremely fucking sad because his new job is absolute garbage.

The pay is alright and his co-workers aren't bad, other kids in high school trying to pass the time and get their parents off their backs—but. Everything else? So terrible. So, so, so bad. He hates having to force his mouth into a smile, hates how his voice shifts an octave or two higher when he speaks to customers, hates when people get mad at _him_  when they order something that doesn't _exist._ Or try to get away with being two or three dollars short. If they were fifteen, twenty cents? Whatever. But Jonathan doesn't understand how and why he has to explain, to fully-grown people might he add, why he unfortunately cannot accept their order when they are literally paying half of the price.

But this isn't about the seemingly infinite list of reasons as to why Jonathan hates his job; it's about why he _likes_ it.

Let's backtrack.

 

 

 

 

 

It's the second week of summer.

His co-worker, Lily, is extremely hungover, so he doesn't bother with awkward small-talk considering how empty the cafe is. Especially since she'd snapped, _Jonathan, you're too goddamned loud_ when he'd, at the most, mumbled. Her eyes are red and she looks miserable, so he makes her a cup of coffee and returns her smile.

It's a slow day. He's relieved, even if he's bored as hell.

It's eleven am when the door _finally_ opens, the bell giving a pleasant chime.

"Can I have like, five coffees, please."

Jonathan chuckles at their deadpan voice, resonating deeply with the groan that follows. "Rough night?"

"Rough _morning,_ more like."

Jonathan looks up from the counter, and nearly shits himself for two reasons: one, _Steve Harrington,_ and two, his eye is blackened and his upper lip is bruised. The bruises are fresh, bright and red and concerning, and it's about as painful as Jonathan assumes it is, judging from Steve's scowl.   

"Holy shit," he says, "I mean, I didn't say anything, that's—"

"You should've seen the other guy," he says, typical of him, warily pressing his fingers against the swelling bruise only to wince.

"Is he in a bodybag? Because that's the only thing worse than—"

"Byers," he interrupts flatly, before sighing. "Coffee, please?"

Jonathan nods, swallows hard, and tries not to freeze up as his fingers work with the cash register. "Do you ..." He clears his throat. "Do you actually want five?"

Steve laughs a little, running a hand through his stupidly-luscious hair. "Cute. No, one's fine, thank you. But a large. Hopefully it'll wake me up from this dream where Billy motherfucking Hargrove beat my beautiful face."

Jonathan doesn't pay attention to much—okay, to anything that happens at his school. It's all the same recycled bullshit, and none of it deserves his attention. But he doesn't live under a rock; he _knows_ about Billy Hargrove, the kid that transferred at the beginning of the year, and has thankfully avoided pissing him off by existing yet. Knows very well about the shit he has with Steve, too, but this? And over what, some pseudo-hierarchy that means horse shit in the long run?

Jonathan's tempted to ask what happened, but he doesn't want to pry. He's not friends or anything with Steve, hell, he's surprised Steve even remembers his name. "At least tell me you got a good swing in. Knock one of his teeth out or something."

"You think I'd let him walk away having done _this_ to me?"

Jonathan raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything else. He hands Steve his change back, and awkwardly shifts over to make the coffee for him.

Steve keeps speaking, surprisingly, and follows him over. "You here by yourself?"

"No, my co-worker is taking a nap."

"At least tell me you're being paid well."

Jonathan shrugs, placing the lid over his cup of coffee. "Minimum wage is minimum wage," he says flippantly.

It seems like Steve's the first person to discover the tip jar, dumping in the _seventeen dollars_ Jonathan returned to him into the slot. "Hope that helps,” he says casually, like he didn’t just tip him _seventeen dollars._

"What—no. Take that back."

"That'd be stealing. I can't steal what's yours."

He's kind of confused. He also doesn't know how to respond to this kind of kindness, especially from Steve, because his experiences with Steve have always been mixed. Well ... is it mixed if you have all shitty encounters, except for one?

Jonathan's too flabbergasted to say anything else, handing the cup over to Steve across the counter. He's surprised he doesn't drop it, right then and there, when Steve's fingers brush against his.

"Thanks, Byers."

He's left watching Steve walk out the door, the bell sounding again from above his head.

 

 

 

 

 

She comes by a few hours later, a half hour before his shift ends.

It's a little busier, but mostly with people sitting and relaxing with friends, board games and pastries between them. He's wiping a table down, Lily manning the cash register, when her voice—familiar, light, enough to steal his breath—fills his ears.

"Jonathan?"

He straightens, smiling awkwardly, before his face falls. Not because he doesn't want to see Nancy or anything, but because he remembers what he's wearing.

"Jonathan Byers? Wearing something _not_ black? Something yellow instead?" She grins, thumbing the strap of her backpack, and—

"Don't tell me you're coming here to do work." His voice is much lighter than he expected, and he smiles without thinking about it.

"I'm fast-tracking, summer school is not—hey, do not give me that look! What's more embarrassing, you in that hat, or me studying in July?"

"You. Definitely you."

She rolls her eyes at him. "And to think I was looking forward to seeing you five seconds ago."

He doesn't really understand how Nancy manages to loosen all of his nerves and let him just _be,_ but she does. All thanks to a stupid chemistry project last semester and his inability to swallow down a laugh when she had complained about their science teacher. She'd gone on this whole rant about him and how, in their freshman year, he had annoyingly gritted out, "This isn't _rocket science,_ folks," while studying NASA and the _rockets_ they've used. It was funny then, Jonathan remembers—he sat in the back, Nancy in the front—but something about the way Nancy exclaimed it, her hands erratically gesturing, voice high, made something in him _snap._

He'd laughed, and Nancy's eyes lit up like she struck gold.

Just like that, she'd pried him open, and it was easy to open up with Nancy Wheeler. She was more than he thought she was; not some shallow airhead who cared about being popular and the weekly gossip. She'd surprised him with smart and driven she was, a 5"4 hurricane.

And Jonathan was so, so _screwed._

It's not like he tried to have a crush on his only friend. He just _did._

He tried to push it down, because he liked being friends with Nancy, but when she smiled at him like _that ..._ God, how could he forget?

"I'll leave you to your studying then," he says, picking up the wash-towel off of the table.  

"Or I can bother you as you clean. I like that option much better."

Her persistency doesn't surprise him and he lets her 'bother' him.  When he's finished cleaning, she takes a seat up by the counter, and it's easy. It's good.

"Jesus, how long is your shift?" Nancy asks at a quarter to seven.

"It ended a few hours ago, actually."

"Are you—Jonathan!" Then she whacks _his_ shoulder.

"Um, ouch?"

"You should've said something! God, you must be waiting to get out of here—"

"No, it's fine. I like ... being here. With you."

_Oh my god, what am I doing—_

She smiles, nudging his stomach. "Me too. But let me buy you a drink or something to make up for it."

"Nancy, it's fine—"

"Jonathan," she says firmly, and he can't really say no to her.

"You're too nice," he concedes, not sure why everyone is suddenly being so nice to him. First, _King Steve_ and his seventeen dollars, and now this?

"Only to you," she says, and he doesn't think too much into it.

 

 

 

 

 

Steve comes by two days later.

His face looks remarkably better. The bruises are still healing, but Jonathan doesn't flinch as soon as he sees him, so it's progress.

His face lights up a little when he meets Jonathan's eyes. "Hey," he says, "can I have ... what's your favourite drink?"

"Uh—"

"Like, what do you recommend?" Steve repeats.

"The lemonade's alright. It looks a little like urine, but."

"Don't think an employee should be saying that, but, alright. Lemonade, please."

Steve hops onto a stool at the counter, sliding a crisp ten dollar bill over to Jonathan. Jonathan gets a better look at him, and can't believe he's saying this— "I like your eyeliner."

"Don't bullshit me, man. My girlfriend—she thought I'd look hot, and I kinda just wanted her to touch my face and be really close to me, so I said _okay, please don't stab my eye or anything._ So if I look stupid or idiotic or like I'm apart of some emo, metal band—like you—please tell me."

Jonathan chooses to ignore the last part of what Steve said, earnestly telling him, "Would I compliment it if I thought it looked terrible?" For once, Steve has nothing to say.

It is truly nice; it's not one of those wings that Jane, daughter of his mother's boyfriend, tried on her. Just some underneath his eyes that make the colour of his eyes pop. He catches himself staring, and when Steve looks up at him, he hastily tears his eyes anywhere but at Steve.

And he swears he catches a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

Nancy and Steve visit sporadically.

Steve's visits usually last a few minutes or until he finishes whatever he buys, always trying something new, and Nancy's last for a few hours. She brings her work and laptop with her, actually accomplishing a few things, before she talks to Jonathan.

It's the middle of July when they both visit _together._

He doesn't notice them at first, because he's cleaning up a mess from behind the counter. Lily somehow knocked a container of iced coffee, spilling it on her uniform and on the floor. She's just darted to the washroom to change, and Jonathan stands up, because the bell chimes.

"Let me pay."

"Steve, c'mon, _I'll_ pay."

"I want to spoil my girl."

"What if I want to spoil _you?_ "

It takes him a few seconds to properly understand what's happening, and when it hits him, it _hits._ Maybe if he ducks really quickly, they won't—

"Jonathan!"

Ah, fuck.

He turns around, hoping his grimace has turned into a smile. "Hey. I didn't—" _be cool, goddammit,_ "I didn't know you guys were ..." he trails off, gesturing towards their intwined hands.

"Oh. Yeah. We don't really hangout at school because _somebody_ has the worst friends in school one of whom _hit on me_ while you were there! Twice!"

Steve winces, shoving his other hand into his pocket. "I told you, I'm ghosting Tommy now that summer's started. I've ignored all of his texts, I'll show you, here—wait. I didn't know you knew Jonathan."

"I didn't know _you_ knew Jonathan."

They look at him expectantly and he blurts out, "I don't. I mean, I don't really know Steve."

"Hey, we've had like, five lunch dates—"

Jonathan coughs on air. "I'm sorry, what's that—"

The tips of Jonathan's ears turn pink. Must he phrase it like that? "More like you annoyed me for ten minutes. And got blood all over my floor."

"Excuse me, it was four drops, kay, thanks—"

"Blood? Steve, what the hell?"

Steve takes a precautionary step away from Nancy who looks equally concerned and murderous. "I told you! Look, Nance, she looked _really_ scared. I couldn't let that asshole walk away without some kind of punishment. You should've seen it, it was just—bad. Really bad."

"But Steve ... you could've really gotten hurt. You said it wasn't that bad, but—Jonathan, was it?"

He blinks. "Hmm?"

"Did Billy fucking Hargrove fuck up Steve's face?"

"Uh." He looks at Steve who's shaking his head rapidly, then to Nancy who stares him down. "I mean. It wasn't—it was ... god, he looked like he ran into a wall ten times."

"Byers, what the hell—"

"I'm going to murder Billy. Where does he live—"

"Nance, Nance, it's fine, okay? I'm fine." He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her into his side.

Nancy nestles her head against his chest, breathing him in. "But Jonathan said you—"

"Jonathan's exaggerating."

"Not really, we really did have to clean up after you left."

" _Jonathan is exaggerating._ "

They take their own table and Jonathan mostly avoids them. With Steve and Nancy in the same room, his heart's officially lodged into his ass, and he doesn't want to deal with the fallout of whatever stupid bullshit he'll say or do. It's not all that surprising, the two of them dating; popular boy, good girl. It's a trope that works. From the looks of it, _they_ work.

Steve leaves an hour later, Jonathan conveniently ducking into the washroom because he's not sure if Steve would say bye or not, not wanting to deal with the disappointment or the fluttering in his chest.

When he steps back out, Nancy is right in front of the cash register, her eyes cold and set. "What's your problem?"

"Uh, Jonathan?" His coworker Jordan says, a gangly guy in his twenties who's said about ten words to him since he's started working here. "You can take your break."

He shuffles out of the counter, lifting the cap off of his head and follows Nancy into a table at the very corner of the cafe. Thankfully, it's bustling with activity, loud enough so that Jonathan's the only one who can hear whatever Nancy's about to say.

"We called you over like ten times! I get it, okay, if Steve's the problem, but he's not—I mean. He _was_ a dick, sure, and I know why you might be wary of him—"

"Nancy, that's not it," Jonathan interrupts.

"Oh sure, like I didn't catch you staring at him with a blank look on your face—"

He doesn't know why she takes it as an act of hatred instead of the opposite, how she didn't notice him staring at her, but he's not going to correct her. "Nancy seriously, I don't think he's a bad guy!" He says loudly. "I mean, he's been a dick, sure." Jonathan remembers Steve's bullshit all too well, times he'd join in with his asshole friends who thought it'd be fun to pick on the kid who bothers absolutely no one, ever, sure. But— "but he's been nice, too. I'm serious!" he adds at the huff on her face. "There was this one time, his stupid friend—"

"Tommy," she supplies.

"Yeah, he took my camera. Just. Fucking _stole it._ And Steve, well, he returned it to me." He doesn't add how Steve had said before he'd gone _think of me when you take your next picture or something, would ya', I'd love to inspire the next ... I don't know any really great photographers, but I guess you'll be the first._ How stupidly Jonathan had smiled to himself, long after Steve had gone. How after that, Steve wasn't some stupid jock.

How he's got the world's dumbest crush on Nancy's _boyfriend_ and how he couldn't stand to acknowledge them because how on earth do you act around _two_ people you like?

"Oh," she says softly, a small smile flickering on the corner of her mouth. But then her eyebrows pinch together and wow, she really doesn't let things go, huh? "Then why...?"

"You guys were on a date!" He says, flustered. "I'm not going to crash."

"You're not crashing if we want you there. Which we do, dummy. If I call you over, you come. Understood?" She's smiling, and Jonathan has no idea why she likes being friends with him, but she's _smiling,_ and that's all he cares about.

"Only if I get to call you dummy back."

"I'll think about it," she says, looping her arm around his. "Dummy."

 

 

 

 

 

They visit a lot more frequently after that. Nancy'll come by with her textbooks and work, and Steve will switch between annoying her and Jonathan. Nancy half-heartedly shoos him away, sending him Jonathan's way, always with an amused smile as Steve dramatically proclaims, "My love, my lady, my...Jonathan, help me out here?"

"Angel?"

"My angel! You have stabbed me, right here, in my _heart,_ however will I go on—"

"Steve," she says, fiddling with a highlighter, "you're too distracting. Distract Jonathan."

Steve hops onto the counter, swinging his feet back and forth. "Hi."

"Off the counter."

A few seconds of fumbling onto a stool, and Steve quickly repeats, "Hi."

"Hello."

"Nancy, Jonathan's not talking to me!"

"What—I said hello!"

"Jonathan, talk to Steve."

"I'm _working,_ " he protests weakly, like he's not just standing at the cash register with nothing to do.

"Talk to me instead."

"You're annoying," he says flatly, not sure why Steve's so insistent.

Steve pretends to pout. "You're no fun."

"Good."

"Hey, Nancy, stop laughing at my failed attempts at getting this asshole to talk to me."

"I _am_ talking to you!"

 

 

 

 

 

It's not that weird to like both of your friends, right? It's not weird that Jonathan's day improves when he sees either of them? When Nancy plays a game of chess that usually lasts two hours long? When Steve tries making him one of their frivolous drink and Jonathan tries not to spit it out?

When he sees them and his heart contracts?

It's weird, because he kind of expected to like Nancy. She's wonderful. She's a no-nonsense, smart, and fierce person who looks at Jonathan and really sees him. She gets him, entirely; a twitch of the lip, a roll of the eyes. It conveys so much more than anything they can say to each other. She doesn't take his shit, either, and he likes the challenge. He likes _her._

What he doesn't expect is Steve. Steve, _pay attention to me,_ Harrington. How the fuck does someone like Jonathan like someone like Steve? Seriously? He doesn't understand, except he does—whenever he gets a bit of whipped cream stuck above his mouth, brings in Will and some of his friends ( _you're friends with my kid brother, what the fuck)_ and covers their entire order, calling them shitheads in every other sentence as he voluntarily chooses to spend time with them, whenever he calls Nancy a genius. Not really meant to compliment her, more like him speaking his thoughts out loud; an awed remark that accidentally came out. It'll happen, and he'll think _oh. Of course I like him._

It's weird. It's weirder that it's not _that_ weird.

 

 

 

 

 

"I don't get it."

Nancy looks up from her textbook, frowning. "What?"

"You guys. You're—you're always here. I just ... your summer's only two months," he says. "Why waste it on me?"

"Jonathan," Nancy says, reaching over to hold his hand. He stills, because _Nancy, your boyfriend is in the washroom, he could be back any minute,_ but doesn't move his hands away. She's looking at him, her blue eyes stealing his breath. It's like he's looking at the moon from the enchantment in his eyes, the way he could watch for hours and be utterly amazed.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but you're an idiot if you think we're wasting it on you. It's called friendship. You know, when people like spending time with each other. Ever heard of it?

He smiles, his eyes crinkling. "No, actually,  it's called lunacy instead. Why do you assume I like spending time with you?"

"Because I'm amazing? And I'm your best friend?"

"Um, no, that's—"

"Jonathan, cool it with the flirting. I get it, summer love, it's sweet, but like. You know. Stop."

"Lily! _Chill,_ " Jonathan manages in a strangled voice, "we're not dating."

Nancy laughs, the sound shrill and unlike her. "I'm dating Steve!"

Lily squints. "But I tho—never mind."

Steve skips back in a second later, oblivious to the embarrassed looks on Nancy and Jonathan's faces. "What'd I miss?" He slides into the seat next to Nancy, looping an arm around her shoulder.

"Apparently I'm not Jonathan's best friend."

"Obviously, 'cause I am."

"What—"

He can't really believe they're arguing over this.

When it gets a little busier, Steve and Nancy occupy a table in the back. It's only when it dies down a little that Jonathan lets himself stare.

"Which one?" Lily asks, voice timid.

He doesn't respond at first. "Both," Jonathan admits, because what the  _hell._

She doesn't flinch or laugh or give him some exaggerated response. "I don't think you've noticed, but they look at you a lot, too."

 _Oh._  "Are you—"

"C'mon, I wouldn't just say it to make you feel better. I know young love when I see it, my friend." She pats his back, leaving him to himself. 

He lets her words sink in, licks his lips, and finds something to do. 

 

 

 

 

 

He has a couple dreams.

They're a little weird.

 

 

 

 

 

August is fucking _hot,_ in more ways than one.

Firstly, there are heat warnings and Jonathan gets numerous sunburns. Secondly, Steve has started wearing muscle tanks and Nancy's shorts have gotten shorter. Also: crop tops.

 _Jesus_.

He comes down with a cold in the second week of August. He’s disgruntled, because who gets sick in the middle of the summer, and takes two days off to hide in his bedroom. He’s not used to being by himself so often, at least not anymore, not since he started working at the cafe. That’s a little weird. Jonathan Byers, self-proclaimed (is what he says to himself) loner, is lonely.  He tries not to linger on it. He knows that when the school year starts, Nancy and Steve will be out the door, but he wants to hold onto the summer a little longer. Now that they’re there, frustratingly wedged into his life, he can’t imagine them not there anymore.

He’s in the middle of a nap when the doorbell rings. It easily disrupts him, he hates being a light sleeper, and reluctantly crawls out from underneath a pile of blankets, walking towards the front door.

“Will, did you forget your—oh.”

Nancy and Steve wear matching smiles, a container in Steve’s hands. “Lily said you were sick, so,” he says, wiggling the container.

“Plus, Steve would not stop complaining about how much he missed you.”

“ _Nancy._ ”

“What? I thought it was cute,” she says, grinning when he _aww’s_ and presses his mouth against her forehead. “Even if it was a little annoying.”

“ _Hey!_ Like you weren't complaining too."

“Well," Jonathan says, smiling despite how badly he wants his nose to cooperate with him and let him breathe, "you are extremely annoying so—”

“I made you chicken soup, dick.”

“It’s really good,” Nancy insists, “and I’m not saying that to be a good girlfriend or whatever. It’ll help with your throat and your voice. You sound, god, Jonathan, you just sound terrible.”

He laughs, gratefully accepting the container as Steve thrusts it into his grip. “Thanks. At least I don’t look as bad as I sound.”

“Oh no, you do.”

“Thanks, Steve,” Jonathan says dryly. He's not sure what to say next, nor do Steve and Nancy. Huh, a speechless Steve and Nancy: that's a first. "You guys wanna come in?"

"Are you sure? I mean, you're sick, it's okay if—"

"Nancy, it's cool," he insists, "human interaction is good."

"God, you sound like an alien, Byers."

It's not a big deal. They sprawl out in his bedroom, Nancy giggling when she spies his collection of mixtapes. _You're so old,_ she teases, but she plays one of them anyway. Jonathan catches Steve humming along to one of the songs. He manages to convince Nancy to dance with him when this old love song comes on, and Jonathan has the excuse of an illness to let him sit on the sidelines. He watches them sway, falling asleep to the sound of their gentle laughter. When he wakes up, they're on either side of him; he's got his chin on Steve's shoulder, Nancy's arm slung around their waists. It's the first time he's slept well in days. 

Steve and Nancy come down with a cold a few days later. He apologizes, over and over, but Steve wholeheartedly tells him it was worth it, and Nancy threatens to sneeze on him.  _You think a cold can take me down,_ she says, sneezing so loudly afterwards that she nearly fell off her bed. Steve and Jonathan laugh; she'd looked tempted to fire back, but at the sound of their laughter, did nothing but smile.

 

 

 

 

"Have you ever kissed a boy?" Nancy asks him. They're in Nancy's room (it's so freaking  _pink),_ surrounded by crumpled tissues and empty bowls. 

Steve quite visibly flinches as soon as the words leave Nancy's mouth.

Nancy notices, opens her mouth, probably to change the topic, but Jonathan feels inclined to answer. "No," he says bluntly, "but then again, I haven't kissed a girl, so." 

Nancy and Steve are noticeably quiet; he half-expects them to offer, because isn't life some badly-written teenage rom-com, but they don't. They duck their heads and he can't really read their expressions.  

"I'd be open to it," he eventually says. They light up like fucking Christmas trees.

 

 

 

 

 

Nancy strolls inside the cafe in the middle of August without her backpack, having finished summer school at the end of July. Her hair's tied up, her belly button peaks through her crop-top, and her shorts are—you know. _Short._

“Hey you,” he says.

“Hey yourself. Can I have a strawberry smoothie, please?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

“Jonathan.”

“Nancy.”

“You’re such an ass,” she replies, laughing. She rifles through her wallet only to dump out a series of coins onto the counter.

“Nancy, you’re kidding, you’re not actually paying with coins, are you?”

“No, Jonathan, I just like to empty out a fuck ton of coins because _why not?_ ”

She rolls her eyes and Jonathan’s a little unnerved, seeing the Steve in her peeking through. It’s kind of cute though, and he opens his mouth to tease her, but she speaks first. “Steve and I were wondering … there’s this party tonight, and you should totally come. Preferably in something that’s not black and doesn’t go down to your feet and wrists, maybe. And if you say no, I’ll cry.”

He pshaws disbelievingly. “You can’t cry on cue.”

She grins, propping her face up on the counter with her elbow. “You really want to find out?”

He contemplates, goes back and forth between the two options. If he says yes, he’ll have to go _out,_ with loud music, alcohol, and obnoxious pricks. But they’ll get a chance to leave the cafe, do something different. He could maybe take some cool pictures. _Maybe._ If he says no, he’ll be free of all of those things … but he won’t be with Nancy and Steve.

He comes to the decision much faster than he leads on, but he pretends to contemplate, scrunching his face up until Nancy leans over and hits his shoulder.

“Jonathan!

“You might actually break my arm, so yes, I guess I’ll come.”

She claps her hands, eager and excited. “Steve’ll pick you up at eight. Please tell me you will wear something that’s a technical colour.”

“Grey’s a colour.”

“Do you hate me?”

 

 

 

 

 

His mom is extremely excited, all smiles and beams when Jonathan awkwardly tells her that he’s going to a party with friends. Will’s mostly surprised— _they managed to get you out of the cafe?_ Jonathan ruffles his hair and pretends to be annoyed, even though he’s just as surprised as brother.

He finds something with colour to please Nancy. It’s a navy shirt, and it’ll do just fine. When he hops into the backseat of Steve’s car, Nancy gasps. “Colour!”

“I didn’t want to make you cry, so.”

“I might actually cry tears of joy,” Steve says, and Jonathan reaches up to flick his ear.

“Shut up and drive.”

“Hey, Byers,” Steve says, starting to drive, “you look pretty good tonight.”

Jonathan’s glad they can’t see his face.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s exactly what he imagined.

Loud music, bottles upon bottles of alcohol, and dancing—or whatever the hell William McDonald is doing. Complete stereotype, complete bullshit, but Jonathan doesn't want to seem like he's having a bad time.

“Whose house is this?” Jonathan asks.

“Like you’re going to know,” Nancy snorts, and he’d give her an indignant huff if she wasn’t wrong.  “C’mon,” she says, grabbing their hands. “Alcohol.”

Steve doesn’t take any because he’s driving them home. Nancy takes a cup, and Jonathan gingerly tries some. It tastes like piss, so he gives the rest to Nancy.

“What now?” He says over the music. They’re standing by the table lined with drinks, watching everyone else dance and talk, stuck in their own, reclusive bubble. He likes the bubble. Likes that he’s in _their_ bubble.

Steve makes eye contact with Nancy and their faces split into matching, devious grins. Jonathan already knows he’s going to detest whatever they suggest. Steve leans in really close—everything stops—but he only moves to whisper something into Jonathan’s ear. The lack of space still makes his heart thud in his chest. “Dance with us.”

The ‘no’ sits on the tip of his tongue, but Nancy’s breath is hot against his other ear when she says, “Let loose, Jonathan. It’s okay.”

He doesn’t say anything, not sure what to say when he suddenly feels hot and tingly. He lets them drag him over to the middle of the room, right in between the mass of people. Nancy makes some space for them, smiling as she twirls Steve around. “Just some stupid teenage shit,” she says earnestly at Jonathan’s uneased expression.

“Be a stupid teenager for once. At least try it. It’s more fun than you think.”

He’s not sure how he ends up in the middle. Maybe he should question why Steve and Nancy’s words are deliberate, why they shuffle so he’s got Nancy in front of him, Steve behind him. It’s so effortless, so smooth, that he doesn’t think it’s choreographed, doesn’t really question what’s happening.

He can be a stupid teenager, right?

“You guys are good at getting me to do things I never thought I’d do,” he admits, flustered. Nancy shoots Steve a smile over Jonathan’s shoulder and he loosens up, firmly ignoring how good it feels to have Nancy’s arms around his neck and Steve’s hands on his waist. They’re not really dancing—just swaying lazily to the music, their bodies close. He’s aware of the space, aware that it’s been slowly closing.

Just stupid teenage shit.

Doesn’t mean anything that he can feel Steve’s breath on his neck. Doesn’t mean anything that Nancy’s forehead is pressed against his.

“See you got yourself a boyfriend here, Harrington?”

Godfucking _dammit._

“I’m sorry, was me punching you not a clear _fuck off,_ Hargrove? I can tell you if you want. Fuck. Off.” Steve doesn’t budge, but the grit in his voice is firm. Nancy reaches out to grab his wrist instinctively, setting her glare on Billy.

Jonathan doesn’t want to turn around to see that asshole’s face; he just wants him to _leave._ He thinks back to how badly Steve was left after their fight, and something in him tightens reflexively.

“Fuck me, I didn’t know you and Wheeler were swingers.”

Steve’s hands fly off of Jonathan’s waist and the three disentangle. Bile rises up in Jonathan’s throat when he forces himself around and eyes Billy Hargrove down. And he thought Steve’s hair was ridiculous.

“But I mean, with _him,_ thought you had higher standards—”

“Oh my god, _go,_ ” Steve groans, straightening his stance. “I don’t give a fuck about you, asshole.”

“You honest to God think I’m going to leave you alone after the shit you pulled? I seriously don’t understand it. You want Max, fucking take her, I’m sure she’s the only person who wants you any—”

It’s a reflex. It doesn’t register until Jonathan’s fist explodes with pain and he pulls back, hissing vehemently. What the hell is his face made of, _stone?_ Everyone stops, even the music’s paused, and Jonathan becomes aware how many eyes are watching them.

“Yeah, no, we’re out of here, _now,_ ” Nancy scowls, tugging on Steve, who tugs on Jonathan. Jonathan’s semi-bummed that he can’t see the state he left Billy in, but the blood on his knuckles is indication enough that he just fucked Billy Hargrove’s face up.

_Ha._

He tingles with adrenaline and it slowly comes down once they’re turned out of the street, all of them breathless and still in shock.

“Jonathan,” Steve breathes, “you didn’t—”

“Who’s Max?”

“She’s—she’s his step-sister. One of the little dipshit’s friends, and—he’s just, the worst, okay? I found a bruise. I wanted—wanted to stop it. It worked. He’s left her alone. But you, you had no reason to hit him! He could’ve hurt you, you dumbass—”

“He didn’t!”

“He _could’ve._ ”

“Jonathan,” Nancy says tentatively, turning around from the passenger seat, “is your fist okay?”

"Yeah, it's—" He stops, stares down at his fist, and no, it's not okay. "I think it's bleeding? Or his blood's dried up on my fist. I can't tell."

"Never hit someone before?"

"Have you _seen me_ before?"

Nancy snorts. "We can get you cleaned up. Steve, are your parents h—"

"Nope. We'll get you cleaned up, Jonathan."

Steve's house is fucking gigantic. Jonathan's never been inside a house this big and tries not to let his incredulity show as Nancy drags him into Steve's kitchen while Steve silently heads up to his room to take a quick shower.

She knows her way around, finding things with ease to brew herself a cup of tea. "He's not mad," she says, "he just ... gets scared? I threatened to kick Billy's ass last month and he—was gross." She wrinkles her nose, sitting across from Jonathan on the dining table.

"So he was being himself, basically."

Nancy smiles at that, pressing a bag of ice against his knuckles. "Yeah. He doesn't want us to get caught in the crossfire, I guess. Likes us too much."

"Who're we gossiping about?" Wearing the exact same thing and still reeking of sweat, Steve pops back in with a kiss to Nancy's cheek.

"You smell gross," Nancy says, but she kisses him anyway.

"Hot water ran out."

Jonathan makes a face, but doesn't comment. "You know, I'm fine. I didn't break a finger or anything. I didn't — I'm sorry if that bothered you. I stepped out of line, that's not —"

"No, it's okay," Steve says, bringing Nancy's tea to her. "I'm not _mad._ You just—didn't have to do that for me."

"I didn't have to, but I _wanted_ to."

Steve looks at him, like—he doesn't know. His heart flutters a little, and he adjusts the pack of ice for an excuse to look away.

"Alright, now that we're not being sentimental—not that it was bad, you two are super cute—can we _please_ talk about Billy's face? Like. I don't want to ever forget that."

Steve ahems, the overhead light flickering. "You don't ever want to forget his face?"

"His _bloodied_ face. But I mean, he's kinda hot—" Nancy laughs at Steve's face, pulling him in fiercely and kissing his chin. "Oh, I'm kidding. Your face is my favourite."

Steve fails at suppressing a smile, sipping her tea only to profusely cough seconds afterwards. "What the hell is _this?_ "

"Ginger tea!" She exclaims, gawking at the disgust in his voice.

"You don't like ginger tea?" Jonathan gasps, and they have the stupidest fight over tea.  

Steve ropes them into coming out into the pool; no one wants to skinny dip (Jonathan's relieved), so they choose to sit by the ledge and dip their feet in the cool water.  The sky's darkened, nothing but stars above them, moonlight surrounding them. They're laid out, blankets underneath them, close enough to the pool to keep their feet in the water.

"This has been a good summer," Nancy says. "I didn't expect it, but—it's been good."

"Yeah," Jonathan says softly, Steve voicing his agreement by kissing the hand she has intwined with his.

"Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah, Jonathan?"

Their faces are so close; Jonathan can see every detail of Steve's face, the eyelash stuck in his eye, the strand of hair curling down his forehead. "You kept coming back. After your fight. Why?"

"I dunno, I liked talking to you? You're—you're a good person. A kinda good that I wanna be. You're ... you're alright, man."

Nancy touches his shoulder. "Jonathan, you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." _More than okay,_ he wants to add.

"Plus," Steve continues, "you're one of the few people who recognize how remarkable Nancy is, and you did just punch Hargrove in the face, so you're cool."

Nancy, never really knowing how to accept one of his many compliments, says "God, you're so _cheesy,_ " with a smile in her voice.

"I like it," Jonathan says quietly. Something in Steve's eyes change, a softening that's all too gentle, and it's the easiest thing in the world, to close the space between them by drawing him into a kiss. It's cheesy; a summer love story, a kiss underneath the stars. Jonathan likes it anyway.  Steve tips Jonathan's chin up, and Jonathan's so goddamned hungry for _more,_ that he brackets an arm around his neck and pulls him in. He's definitely not imagining the noise of approval sounding from Steve's throat, nor is he imagining the way Steve pulls his collar forward.

It's like he's done the impossible: forget about Nancy Wheeler. "Wow," she breathes out from behind them, and Jonathan jerks away so quickly he nearly bumps into Nancy.

"Holy fuck. I'm—Jesus, I'm so _sorry._ " He stumbles up to his feet, trying very hard not to cry.

"Jonathan, where are you going?" Nancy sounds bewildered, and he has to yank his leg away from her reach.

"Jonathan, man, c'mon, let's just talk—"

He ignores them, leaving before he bends and gives in to his heart's every desire of staying. Because Steve kissed him _back._ Because Nancy wasn't pissed. But it's all too easy, and he's not going to stay and watch their friendship crumble.

On his walk home, his throat constricts, tightening, like he's drowning. He knows how to get fresh air, knows how to make it stop, yet he keeps walking towards his house.

 

 

 

 

Of course he has work tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

"Thanks so much, Jonathan, Darlene's cat threw up, which is obviously an emergency—hey." Lily frowns. "Everything okay?"

He tucks his hat onto his head, nodding. "'S fine. Just a long night."

She looks unconvinced, but doesn't press, playfully swatting his arm. "Well, I'm sure it'll be better when Nancy and Steve come by."

Jonathan timidly smiles and excuses himself out of the counter to tidy up the stack of boardgames. The cafe doesn't open for another few minutes, so he basks in the silence.

"Jonathan! _Jonathan!_ "

What the fuck—

He whips his head around, freezing at the sight of them; Nancy's mouth is pressed into a line, her eyes pleading while Steve can barely contain himself, rapping repeatedly on the front entrance. He can't exactly avoid him when the door and walls are transparent, but he finds himself thinking that maybe he wouldn't want to, anyway.

Jonathan's heart thuds.

"Jonathan," Nancy says, slow and out of breath, "please. Open the door."

He swallows, does as she asks. "Hi. Do you—do you guys want some coffee or something?"

"You. Kissed. Me. Last night."

"I'm just—" Lily shuffles into the back, thank god, but Jonathan's cheeks don't become any less red.

"I did, yeah."

Steve's hands clench, but he doesn't seem aggravated. He seems his heart might pound its way out of his chest. "Why?"

"You're asking me. Why I kissed you?"

"So you like Steve?"

His face falls. "Nancy, I'm—"

"Do you like me too?"

Not—not what he expected.

Jonathan supposes he should probably having expectations for Nancy.

He kissed her boyfriend, so he might as well be honest. He forces himself to look at her, look her in the eye. "Yeah."

She promptly marches up to him, grabbing his chin and tilting his face downwards. "Jonathan, do you want this?"

"Um—" His entire body gives him a giant _fuck you_ and he can't move, not when her thumb gently strokes underneath his chin, and Steve's inched forward, cautiously reaching forward to touch his hair. "Um," he tries again. It's not successful.

"'Cause we do," Steve says, "All you gotta do is say the word."

Nancy's confident demeanour falls and she starts to step back. "Do you not like me..."

"No, what, no, come back, I do! I do."

His words bring her back, bring her hands onto his cheeks, bring her smile and shaky laugh. She draws him in and his heart soars, her mouth soft and warm against his. _God, Nancy, I am so sorry about my chapped lips,_ he thinks, and then ho-ly shit, she's kissing _him._ In front of her boyfriend. It's so wonderfully weird that he wants to sweep her off her feet, but he knows his capabilities—maybe Steve'll sweep him off his feet instead—and doesn't want to drop Nancy on her head or anything.

"Was that okay?" She exhales.

"Are you kidding, that was great—"

Steve laughs, smoothing the back of his head. "Dork."

"Y'know," Nancy says, pulling Steve in closer by pushing the nape of his neck, "we had a plan last night. Then you went and kissed him and threw us off our rhythm."

"Sorry."

"You can make it up to me by kissing me again. And, like, don't run away after."

Nancy scoffs, "And you called _me_ a dork," and Jonathan tenderly brushes stray hairs out of Steve's face, trying not to smile.

"You can admire me later, nerd. Kiss me first."

"Is he always this ... _this?_ "

Nancy smirks. "It's annoyingly charming, right?"

"Lala, all this talking, no _kissing_ —" He makes a muffled noise when Nancy kisses him, smile on her mouth, definitely enjoying shutting him up. Jonathan doesn't tense up like he expects to; he watches, and wow. They're pretty.

"You know," she says, "to even the score."

"So wait," Jonathan clears his throat, acutely aware of how close they are to him, "you both. _Like me._ You both. Want to be with _me._ "

"Oh my god, Jonathan, did they not just sprint here to proclaim their love or whatever? Bro, you're better than this!"

" _Lily,_ " Jonathan hisses, turning around to shoot her a glare. "Were you listening this entire time?"

She raises her hands defensively. "Hey, I wanted to make coffee! I'm not _wrong._ "

"She isn't," Nancy says.

"Hate to break this up, but we've got customers coming."

 _Shit._ Jonathan swings back around, scratching the back of his neck. "I've gotta do my job. Talk later?"

"Sure thing," Nancy drawls, kissing his cheek in passing. He flushes profusely, absentmindedly reaching up to touch the spot where she'd kissed. 

Steve grins that stupidly sweet grin of his, readjusting his hat for him. "We'll be here."

 

 

 

 

He's making a cappuccino an hour later when Lily nudges him. "Here," she says, "for you. A black coffee."

Jonathan blinks, confused as he notices writing. Lifting the cup up, he stares at it and grins, spotting their numbers. Nancy's is written in her neat scrawl, Steve's messy and hard to read (is that a three or an eight?). 

"Aren't I supposed to be giving you drinks with my number on it?"

"Role-reversal?" Steve calls out.

"And I already have your numbers."

"Shut up and accept our romantic gesture!"

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: the last few lines were the inspiration for this fic
> 
> also fun fact: I'm on such a stoncy roll these three are getting me to write so MUCH 
> 
> also another fun fact: I think I'd explode if y'all kudo/comment, so y'know, if you liked it, please let me know! writers day's improve by 100% when people comment, look at how much you're learning today!
> 
> have a lovely day :)


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